


The Frenchman's Gambit

by hangdog



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Espionage, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 14:35:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5167466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hangdog/pseuds/hangdog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years before the Gravel Wars, Spy seduces a young Tavish DeGroot for confidential files.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a [Decemberists song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p3oe4vlkoHE), but the sequence of events is very different.

In the autumn of 1958, Tavish entered into a contract with the government for the first and last time. He orchestrated the demolition of buildings outside of Belfast that housed a secret underground network of tunnels. Something to do with the Irish republicans—no one explained to him the full story. They only shared with him the layout of the place. This particular job required a certain level of finesse and discretion that only one family in the United Kingdom could provide. They asked for Tavish by name. His mother saw no difference between this job or any other, and his father, God rest his soul, had advised him at the time to put aside his distrust of the government and think of it as another for the count. Tavish had no way of knowing at the time that the job would eventually lead to his exile.

Tavish and the establishment never did see eye-to-eye, even before he lost his. As a wee lad, his adoptive parents had to make endless excuses and apologies for his precocious explosive experiments, right up until their deaths. The Ullapool Orphanage taught him everything he needed to know about his place in the system. Even when he learned about his true heritage and destiny, his natural gifts meant that he was always outside the law. It stood to reason that a lad who schemed to dynamite all of his problems was not to be trusted by ordinary folk. If he was lucky, he merely scared them. At worst, they conspired to imprison him for what he thought were simply boyish stunts and learning exercises. He never could help building his unsavory reputation, and no matter how his biological parents insisted that his honor was in his work, Tavish struggled for most of his early life with a purpose that was inherently at odds with society. Ten years later, he has learned to drown his worries with a river of alcohol and tell the world to go fuck itself, but he was so _young_ then. A scant few hours in a holding cell felt like an agonizing lifetime, and a horrified look on a lovely girl’s face was a torturous reminder of his monstrous aberrations.

So when the government requested the consult of a Highland Demolition Man, specifically the up-and-coming Tavish DeGroot, he endured the background checks and scrutinizing glares with no small trepidation. It was clear from the start that neither he nor his employers enjoyed the prospect of working together, and with the border attacks on Northern Ireland so recent in public memory, they were keen on making sure that the entire project remained under wraps. He must have signed at least fifty pages of contracts, none of which he read. Some idiot in a suit tried to explain to him how he couldn’t talk to anyone, and gave him endless warnings about jail time as if he hadn’t heard it all before.

Funny, in retrospect, how they thought they could keep a black Scottish cyclops a secret for very long, especially when they gave him access to all the explosives he wanted. He had never had a bottomless budget before. He went slightly overboard on the first site, distressing his supervisors, and may have destroyed a few extra (uninhabited) buildings in the process. In his defense, the blasts were a work of art. The concussive waves hit them like the rhythmic roll of a god, and the patter of debris was so pretty and composed that he still, today, thinks of the sound and smiles as one recalls a beloved pet.

This overzealous act truly began the entire debacle. He found out the next day that because he had strayed from directive on the first site, they called off the entire thing. His supervisors—his handlers, he realized—had to justify to a screaming Royal Constabulary officer why their “contractor” couldn’t follow orders. Tavish sat in an uncomfortable chair in a musty office for most of the following day, watching the window for the police, waiting for yet another stint in jail. His parents would not be happy to bail him out. Would they be disappointed that he failed the job, or pleased to hear about his latest masterwork? Either way, his skull already ached in anticipation of his mother’s cracking cane.

The rotund silhouette of one of his supervisors, a balding man who had aged five more years in the past twenty-four hours, appeared in the glass door. He only cracked it open in an attempt to contain some of the furious arguing within, and slid his ample belly through the gap with great difficulty. “Just go, DeGroot,” he urged, as he mopped sweat from his brow with his kerchief.

Tavish jumped to his feet, prepared to resist arrest. “That’s it? I’m sacked, then?”

“No.” His supervisor grimaced. “Come back next week. We’re not finished.”

“Are you—really?”

His supervisor only groaned, and Tavish, unwilling to question such good fortune, hurried from the office before someone else appeared with a contrary order.

He strolled through the streets on that crisp autumn afternoon, amazed at his own luck, and so confident that even the occasional stare from passers-by failed to rankle him. His parents would be so proud. They didn’t have to know every detail about the job after all. Completion would be enough. He found himself outside of a pub without consciously considering it, but if this wasn’t worth celebrating, what was?

A man, smoking outside, interrupted him just as he touched the door. “Excuse me.”

Tavish instinctively bristled. He was unaccustomed to being approached for anything but employment or ridicule. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, actually.” The man spoke with a subtle French accent. Tavish took in his expertly tailored suit and aquiline features. He was handsome, but his pale eyes startled Tavish with their keen focus. “Do you have the time?”

Tavish hesitated. That was all? Something about the request had seemed more urgent. He glanced at his wrist before he realized that he wasn’t wearing a watch. The stranger’s amused smirk told him that he had noticed this as well, but rather than question it, Tavish instead opened the pub’s door and squinted through the dark, smoky interior at their wall clock. “Quarter till five,” he said.

“Ah, good,” said the stranger. The briefest of pauses followed, during which Tavish gawked like a fool with the door hung open. “Fancy a drink?”

“You don’t have somewhere to be?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Tavish restrained himself from cringing at his own stupidity.

“Not for some time,” the stranger replied. He gestured with a graceful hand. “After you.”

Drinking with a stranger was a surreal experience. Tavish did not befriend others easily. As a child, he had been more magnanimous, but by the time he was old enough to take up residence at pubs for most nights, he had lost most of his social skills along with his eye. Flirting was another universe entirely. He forgot what he wanted to drink, stood lost in the center of the floor like an idiot, and stalled for entirely too long when the stranger asked his name, as if he had forgotten it.

The stranger, however, was more than tactful in the face of his utter incompetence. He ordered scotch for them both, steered Tavish towards a table in the corner, and patiently waited for Tavish to remember his name when asked. “DeGroot?” he repeated, when Tavish finally found his voice. “That sounds familiar.”

Tavish shrugged, swallowing in a manner that he hoped was silent. “I’m not in the papers or anything.” The stranger chuckled as if this was actually funny, which confirmed that he was indeed flirting. Tavish became extremely conscious of which side of his face was turned more towards the stranger. He realized after a moment that he was tilting his head like a pigeon, presenting his only eye, and tried instead to stare at the bar as if he meant to be looking in that direction. “You haven’t told me yours. Your name.”

“Henri Rousseau.”

“ _That_ sounds familiar,” echoed Tavish, although at the time, he was too nervous to recall something as seemingly irrelevant as art history. Much later, he would see Rousseau’s paintings, and experience the crushing weight of his own idiocy. “Well, I suppose we’re both famous, aren’t we?”

Henri laughed again, until he snorted, and raised his glass to toast to the sentiment. That was the first of many drinks that afternoon, which became that evening, which transitioned seamlessly into that night. Henri was a wonderful conversationalist and an even better listener. He encouraged every detail of a story, and gave excellent feedback that proved he truly absorbed the content. He was impeccably polite, as well, and he took the information that Tavish had lost his eye to a haunted book in stride.

Between Henri’s savoir-faire and the scotch, Tavish quickly forgot his nerves. In fact, he forgot everything but his desire to impress the handsome, worldly fellow who had inexplicably taken an interest in him. He began to boast, as was his wont. He added an impressive flair to his childhood exploits, his mythological prowess, his demolition skills, his family history, and, finally, his most recent job.

“…an’ then, jus’ when it looks like I’m doon, or off tae prison,” Tavish slurred, finally approaching the present moment in his narrative, “he tells me t’coom back next week! Can y’believe it?”

“How fortunate for you,” Henri agreed, sipping scotch with his pinky extended. His other hand lay on the table, and Tavish felt the overpowering impulse to lay his own over it. Even in this state, he knew he couldn’t in public. A better idea occurred to him.

“Y’wanna get out of here?” Tavish suggested.

“It is getting late. Just a moment.” Henri stood, gestured for Tavish to wait, and went to the bar. By the time Tavish had sorted through his muddled thoughts and realized that Henri was paying for them both, it was too late.

“Y’shouldn’a doon tha’!” Tavish stumbled after Henri, who remained curiously composed for someone who had matched him drink for drink. “I tol’ ye all night about me new job! Tha’ means I treat ye!”

“It was no trouble,” said Henri. “I wanted to repay you for your pleasant company.” He took Tavish by the elbow, steering him along the street. The touch thrilled Tavish deep in his belly. He could smell Henri’s natural musk, masked by a spicy note of cologne and sweet smoke.

“An’ how am I t’repay ye?” he teased, deliberately pitching against Henri so that he had no choice but to catch him against his chest.

Henri wrapped a thin arm around Tavish’s shoulders. He was a spare man, but his grip belied his power. It was much like learning for the first time that a snake is nothing but a streak of muscle. Tavish, intoxicated in an entirely new way, leaned against him, and brushed Henri’s sharp chin with his nose.

His memories of that night, although addled by drink, remain vivid. Too impatient to return to his room, Tavish had steered them into the greenery, forgetting the expensive nature of Henri’s clothes. Henri did not protest. He actually seemed to enjoy how Tavish wrinkled them and tossed them over branches. Tavish was not too far gone to lay down his own coat over the grass, and Henri laughed again when he presented the spot with a gentlemanly air. They lay together, and Henri claimed Tavish with his thin, clever lips. His eyeteeth pricked like fangs, swelling Tavish’s blood above and below.

A considerable amount of time passed as they sucked and petted each other in the bushes. The position was too awkward for anything more intense, and he himself was too inexperienced to breach the subject or to be breached himself, but Henri seemed eager to prove the mettle of his mouth in every possible way. Tavish carried scars on his knuckles for years, where he bit them to keep from alerting the entire city to their tryst.

“Come back with me,” Tavish said when he’d had time to catch his breath. “I’m in a tenement—a flat,” he corrected himself in a feeble attempt to make the place sound attractive, “just until the job’s done. You can sleep with me tonight.”

Henri, who had endured Tavish’s first attempt at oral sex with no shortage of hastily whispered instructions, seemed interested in the opportunity for a more thorough climax. “I am worried that I will keep you up all night,” he said nonetheless. “You must work.”

“Not until next week,” Tavish convinced him. “Come with me.” He grasped Henri’s hand, the one that wasn’t quite so sticky, and trailed his broader fingers over Henri’s narrow palm. Henri smiled at him, and followed.

Tavish doesn’t remember falling asleep next to him, though he must have. He does remember waking with a start to an empty bed and a full pitcher of water on his nightstand. Grateful for the amenity despite the sinking feeling in his chest, Tavish drank until his tongue stopped sticking to the roof of his mouth. He searched for a note, a token, anything to convince him that Henri would return, but the water was all that Henri had left for him.

He almost wept. The first person to show interest in him in years was gone without a trace. He realized that he had fallen asleep before he fulfilled his promise to go further with their sex, because he was still dressed from the waist down, and he suspected that Henri had been disappointed enough to abandon him.

With nothing to do for the day, or the rest of the week for that matter, Tavish drafted a plan at once. He would drink until his headache fled, and then he would keep drinking, until he could no longer remember who Henri was.

There was only one problem. This plan required liquor, and he was fresh out in his room—hence his visit to the pub last night. He would have to walk down the street in daylight. The mere thought sent him back to bed like influenza, where he lost consciousness.

He woke again to the smell of smoke. Henri had miraculously reappeared.

He sat on the edge of Tavish’s bed, wearing a different but equally flattering suit. He was reading a book by the light from the window. The sun’s position told Tavish that he had slept through the afternoon. “How are you feeling?” he asked when Tavish stirred.

“Ah,” Tavish responded, overwhelmed. He grasped Henri’s hand where it rested by his leg. “Thought you left.”

“I had to change into something that wasn’t full of leaves and grass,” Henri chided him. He leaned over Tavish to place a delicate kiss on his lips, one that deepened when he realized that Tavish hadn’t been sick since he left. Tavish didn’t intend to moan so, but he did. “Don’t worry, _mon beau_. I wouldn’t dream of abandoning you.”

Tavish didn’t have to explain that he felt likewise. He sat up instead, and reached for the water pitcher. He was grateful to see that Henri had refilled it, and Tavish set about draining it once more. The cool water managed to wake him more effectively the second time.

Henri encouraged him to get out of bed and shave. A thought occurred to Tavish during his routine. What had Henri been up to all day? He remembered that Henri had approached him the night before asking about the time, and had mentioned that he needed to be somewhere at some point, only to stay by his side until the next morning. Tavish couldn’t believe that Henri found him so irresistible.

“Henri?” he asked, as he reentered his room. Henri looked up from his book. “May I ask what you’re doing in Belfast?”

“Oh, the same as you. Business,” Henri answered vaguely, and continued to read.

Tavish tried to remember if Henri had mentioned anything about it the night before. The more he thought, the clearer it became that he had no idea what Henri’s business was. In fact, aside from Henri’s name, his arresting charm, and his penchant for Italian leather shoes and exquisite suits, Tavish knew absolutely nothing about him.

“What sort of business?”

Henri closed his book this time. “It’s governmental. With the current political climate, I’m afraid I can’t give too many details. You understand, don’t you, with your own _classified_ _work_?”

For the first time, there was something other than silky affection in Henri’s voice. Tavish thought he was made of sterner stuff, but the first hint of displeasure from his new friend had him ready to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness.

Henri must have seen the dismay in Tavish’s face. His icy expression softened immediately. “Sweet boy,” he said, rising to his feet, “you have been on my mind all day.” He embraced Tavish and lavished kisses on his freshly shaven face and neck.

Tavish did not have the chance to protest, rather childishly in hindsight, that he was not a boy, but a man of twenty, nor did he have the opportunity to point out that Henri did not appear to be that much older than he. Henri had an ageless quality to him that meant he could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. His light brown hair could have paled with age, but it showed no trace of gray. Tavish, by contrast, looked younger than he was, owing to his full cheeks and lack of facial hair at the time. He had thought that the eye patch did something to age him. Evidently, it did not fool Henri.

They fell back into bed together. Henri stripped his suit jacket and cast it over the headboard without breaking away from Tavish’s mouth. Tavish had not dressed since the previous night, and once Henri stripped to the waist, he immediately fell to Tavish’s chest, kissing through the curly hair at his nipples and stroking his taut belly. When he pushed Tavish’s pants down his thighs and trailed his mouth below his navel, Tavish was in heaven.

Henri stopped before he finished him. Tavish muzzily voiced some sort of encouragement, only to realize that Henri was moving to sit astride his thighs. His weight was so slight, and yet he held Tavish completely in his sway. As Henri’s gaze arrested his, Tavish had the fleeting, disconcerting thought that this man could slit his throat at any time, and he would watch him fondly as he fell.

Henri disrobed completely with the most graceful motions Tavish had ever seen. Not once did he disrupt the contact between them. When he was nude, he bucked forward, spread his slim legs, and lowered himself on to Tavish’s cock.

Tavish tasted blood from his knuckles this time. He couldn’t help but arch his hips into Henri, and Henri encouraged him with a throaty moan and a responsive squeeze that blanked Tavish’s vision.

“Go on,” said Henri, drawing Tavish’s hand from his mouth. “Make noise.”

Tavish made noise. He and Henri must have baffled the neighbors with the volume of their passion. If Henri had not given him such extensive attention the previous night, he would not have lasted so long, but he was grateful to extend the gripping sensation of being inside Henri. He was tighter than a woman. Curiously, he was also wet inside, and not in a filthy way. Tavish realized that Henri must have prepared to do this before he joined him again. The thought sent him into lustful spasms.

Henri rode Tavish until all of Tavish’s muscles were exhausted, and milked him dry. Henri’s own seed spilled across Tavish’s chest. Tavish, now completely drunk on pleasure, swiped his fingers through it and brought it to his mouth. He decided that he rather liked the taste, as he liked everything about Henri.

Henri dismounted him and slid up against his side, nestling under Tavish’s arm. Tavish cradled him protectively. Tavish had been sleek when he was a youth, without the muscle mass he would build years later, but Henri was still more meekly framed. Tavish had the opportunity, when Henri sat over him, to see the gaps between his ribs, and the compact muscles exposed by his lack of body fat. Henri was absurdly delicate without his clothes.

Henri withdrew a silver case from his discarded jacket and lit a cigarette, skillfully negotiating the flame over Tavish’s bare chest so as not to singe him. They shared that cigarette, and another, and enjoyed a long, peaceful silence.

Just as Tavish began to wonder when Henri would leave him, Henri suggested dinner. Tavish’s neglected bodily needs sprung to the forefront. He needed food and drink, and he followed Henri wherever he led him.

They spent that night and the next day together. Tavish learned quickly how to pleasure Henri with his mouth. He still remembers the absolute pride, the sheer warmth in his chest, when Henri’s cries changed from calculated, encouraging responses to blissful and genuine moans. They lay together in comfortable companionship, occasionally chatting but mostly enjoying each other’s company. Henri satisfied Tavish’s needs so thoroughly that, after a mere forty eight hours, Tavish was convinced that he would never be the same without Henri in his life.

Henri seemed equally infatuated with him on the surface. Of course Tavish could recognize the signs in hindsight, but then, his hormones were so addled, and his mind so eager to believe that he warranted this attention for the first time in his life, that he missed every red flag which signaled Henri’s true intentions. Henri only revealed the most basic of information about himself, and mostly acquiesced to Tavish’s lead in conversation. Whenever Tavish approached the subject of Henri himself, he distracted him with skillful affections.

The mystery became a more pressing matter when Henri disappeared at the end of their second day. He did give Tavish advance notice beforehand. “I cannot be with you tonight,” he said airily, as he rose from their tousled sheets.

Tavish hid his disappointment with another gulp of the whiskey they had purchased earlier that day. “Aye?” was all he could say.

“Business,” said Henri, now dressing himself. This word had come to summarize all that Henri would not explain, and Tavish learned to accept it at face value, without pressing the matter.

“When can I see you again?” he asked instead.

“Soon enough.” Henri donned his tie and jacket. “I understand that you have work to do as well.”

Tavish had completely forgotten why he was even in Belfast. He stared at Henri stupidly for a moment before he recalled what he meant. “Tomorrow,” he realized. He had forgotten what day it was as well. If Henri hadn’t reminded him, he would never have returned to the office.

“Yes. I suppose we will both be occupied for a short time.” Henri kissed him, and stroked his jaw with his hand. Tavish leaned into his touch. “I will come for you, _mon beau_.”

“See that you do,” Tavish responded. He meant to say it more forcefully, but it came out like he was begging. Henri smiled at him and took his leave.

Alone, Tavish lay back in bed and considered how much was left in the bottle. He had enough to tide him over, but no matter how many drinks he had, his unease only grew. He suddenly felt as though he would never see Henri again, despite his promise. He was desperate to know what Henri was up to when he left, and as his mind wandered, he feared that Henri might be in danger.

Thoughts of Henri plagued Tavish through the next day, when he again met his handlers at their office. They looked equally as annoyed with him as he was with them.

“Are you drunk?” the fat one interrogated him at once.

“Do I _look_ drunk?” he snapped. He regretted leaving his bottle back at the flat. If they could tell just by looking at him, at least he could keep drinking while he handled the job.

The fat one had no answer but a frustrated sigh, and one of the others, an old man, stepped forward to direct Tavish for the day. He had demolished about half of the tunnels they needed to destroy, beginning with the deepest, but some shallower offshoots remained. The fat man continued to express his doubt that Tavish could handle the work whilst inebriated.

“Listen,” Tavish shouted, “I could blow up every one of those tunnels and have enough time to shag yer mum before the day’s end!”

“This is a waste of time,” the fat man said, ignoring him. “I’m not getting killed for his mistakes.”

“Then I’ll take him,” volunteered the old man.

The others were more than happy to leave Tavish to their colleague, and so Tavish found himself driving out to the edge of Belfast beside the old man, with a boot full of dynamite.

“I’d like to have this done on schedule,” the old man explained, though Tavish wasn’t listening. Nausea set in once they left the paved roads as his hangover crept up on him. All he could think about was seeing Henri again. “The longer we wait, the more dangerous it becomes.”

“Right, the Irish,” Tavish muttered, distracted. He slouched in the seat.

“You know what this is all about?” the old man asked.

Tavish was too miserable to pretend that he understood any of the politics behind the job. “Not really. I just want it over with as well.”

“Hm.” The old man drove in silence for several minutes. Tavish thought he was done speaking when he said, “You’re expendable.”

Tavish sat up. “What?”

The old man glanced at him, and then turned back to the road. “We could have sent the police out there. We could have had a squad of specialists, but we lost too many in the recent years, and we were expecting an attack before all the tunnels came down. It was both cheaper and more effective to hire one of you DeGroots. If the walls came down on you, well…”

He didn’t have to finish. Tavish understood. He was a criminal, more or less. He didn’t even need to be convicted of anything at the moment: sooner or later, he would be back in prison. If he died on the job, the government lost one more potential terrorist. If he survived and completed it, then they had their work completed for them. Either way, they had nothing to lose.

“Why did you tell me this now?” he asked. He set his jaw and tried to look as though the information hadn’t crushed him. “I could refuse.”

“We would have you arrested.”

“I could kill you!” threatened Tavish.

“I suppose you could.” The old man did not seem worried in the least. “Although, I advise you to wait until we’re out of the car, or you may also perish in the crash.”

Tavish dragged his hands through his hair. His mouth felt dry, and it wasn’t just the hangover. He didn’t speak for the remainder of the drive.

They arrived at the second site. An abandoned building covered the entrance to the shallower network of tunnels. Tavish had already mapped out the work. He found himself going through the motions of his plans, laying the dynamite methodically. It felt as though his body moved on its own. His mind was completely blank. If he allowed himself to dwell on his thoughts, they would overwhelm him. God, he wanted to see Henri again.

The old man waited in the building at the other end of a radio. He and Tavish communicated only the necessities of their coordination. Otherwise, they were silent.

Tavish emerged after several hours. “It’s done,” he said, and the old man simply nodded.

They moved to a safe distance. Tavish activated the explosives. He should have felt a rush of pleasure. He should have been choked up. He should have crowed to the heavens that he was a Highland Demolition Man, and he would set the world afire.

“Let’s go,” he said instead, and the old man drove him back into the city without another word.

The old man left him by his tenement. Apparently, they wanted to do a final sweep of the area before they gave him his pay. He had to return to the office one more time. Tavish would have been furious if he had the energy. He agreed to whatever the old man said, and dragged himself inside to his bed.

He hoped that Henri would be waiting for him, but of course his flat was empty. The whiskey was his only comfort. He drank himself into an early slumber.

Late that night, he opened his eye. He couldn’t figure out why he was awake, until his groggy brain registered the ringing telephone. He groped through the darkness and finally grasped the receiver.

“Tavish.” Henri sounded as if he couldn’t breathe properly. “Tavish, it’s me.”

“Henri?” Tavish bolted upright. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t do it. Don’t listen to them.” There was a muffled thud, and Henri gasped in pain.

“Henri!” Tavish shouted into the phone. “Where are you?”

“He’s with us.” A different man spoke now, with an Irish accent. “Interesting boyfriend he’s got himself. Working for the government, you are.”

Tavish leapt out of bed. “I’ll fucking kill you, do you hear me?”

“I guarantee you won’t reach us before he’s dead.” Henri cried out again in the background, and Tavish, helpless in his rage, punched the wall. “I want to make a trade.”

They wanted documents and microfilm. The Irish man on the phone explained how Tavish could lift them from the government office during his appointment tomorrow. He wouldn’t say where to deliver them.

“Get them first. Then we’ll talk.”

“You _fuck,_ ” Tavish bellowed. “Leave him alone!”

“He’ll be fine, as long as you come through.”

Tavish called, “Henri!” but the line was already dead. He dropped the phone and circled the room, pacing endlessly, shaking down to his bones. He kicked and punched the wall until his hand bled and his neighbors shouted at him. He left then, and walked for miles in the midnight dark, clutching his bottle.

He imagined Henri, his small body and fine hands, helpless and abused by his captors, and collapsed, weeping, by the side of the road. This was his fault. They had taken Henri as a pawn in their plan. If Henri had never met him, he would be safe. Tavish was too dangerous to be close to anyone. He had killed his adoptive parents when he was only a boy, and now, his first love had met a horrible fate as well. Tavish wanted to die. He would, if Henri did not make it out alive. This pain was too much to bear.

As he sobbed and sniveled by someone’s house, an idea came to him. If anything happened to Henri, he wouldn’t simply off himself. First, he would hunt down his captors and kill them, one by one. Then, he would go out in the greatest explosion the country had ever seen. The government was worried about the Irish? They should have been worried about Tavish DeGroot.

His eye was dry by morning. He checked himself in a store window on his way to the office. At least his haggard appearance would not arouse any suspicion with his handlers at this point, when they already knew he would come to work drunk.

The fat man was the only supervisor to greet him. Tavish expected his judgmental sneer, but he produced his cheque all the same. He had just dismissed Tavish when he received a phone call, and he retreated into another room to talk.

Tavish seized his chance and rifled through the file cabinets. He had no idea what he was stealing. He knew only to look for labels with certain men’s names, and he had no time to check their contents. His bounty was a heavy pile of folders and two reels of microfilm. He had just enough time to tuck these into his jacket and retreat before the fat man finished his call.

Tavish hurried outside. Once in the street, he had to remind himself not to rush, or he would draw suspicion. He already stood out enough. If he was stopped and searched, the police would find what were clearly stolen documents, and he would never see Henri again.

It seemed to take hours for him to return to his phone at the tenement. It was silent for nearly as long, and he stood by it, too anxious to sit, and out of whiskey. He had almost given up hope when it rang at last.

Tavish spoke immediately. “Where’s Henri?”

“Oh, he’s here.” The man was silent for a moment, and Tavish could hear muted crying in the background. Tavish covered his mouth. “Let’s talk about how you’ll deliver those files. You do have them?”

“Of course I fucking have them! Let’s get this over with, you bastard.”

The man gave him the address of a nearby park. “Go there now. Leave them in a brown paper bag beside the middle bench and walk away.”

“And you’ll let Henri go?”

“As soon as we have what we want.”

“That’s not good enough! I did what you asked. There’s no reason to keep him any longer!”

“You’re in no position to make demands. We’ll be in touch after.”

“I’ll find you,” Tavish promised. “I’ll snap your fucking neck.”

“You’re a funny boy, Tav. You had better get to walking.” He paused, and Henri screamed again. “Your man looks uncomfortable.”

Tavish slammed the receiver down with shaking hands and searched his room for a paper bag. His latest purchase of whiskey had been wrapped in one, so he repurposed it. As he crammed the files into the wrinkled paper, the labeled names caught his attention. If he wanted to find and murder these men, he should use their own intelligence against them.

Tavish arranged the files on his bed. The labels were typical Irish names: O’Malley, O’Brien, Daly. Whoever these men were, they were important to the group that seized Henri. One of them could have been the voice on the phone.

Tavish searched the files for photographs, all but ignoring the long and lengthy descriptions of their terrorist acts. Nothing they had wrought would match what he would do to them. He pocketed the clearest pictures of their faces, imagining cruel fates for each of the men. He would torture them until they gave up the name of the man who ordered Henri’s kidnapping. If they informed him, he would show mercy with a quick death.

His fantasies had so firm a hold on him that he almost ignored the last, crucial photograph in one file. Each folder was dedicated to one man, and all of the surveillance photos focused on that subject, but as Tavish lifted a picture of the central man in a group of collaborators, he recognized, from behind, a hawkish profile and large, flared ear.

He was pictured sitting with the group in what looked like a dingy pub. The photographer must have stood outside the window. Henri’s back faced the camera, but his face was turned just enough that Tavish could identify the ridge of his brow and the curve of his nose. He had seen him often enough from that angle over the last two days.

Tavish seized the enclosing folder, scattering its pages. The label read “Nolan O’Sullivan.” This O’Sullivan, an entirely different man, was the focal subject of the remaining photos, and while Tavish searched each of them, Henri only appeared in the one.

He combed through the other folders. Now that he knew to search for Henri, he saw what he had missed in his first, furious perusal. Each file betrayed Henri, not as the subject of the intelligence, but as a hint on the outskirts of one or two photographs in collections of twenty or more. His long fingers rested on a table at the edge of the photo frame, or his sharp shadow flanked a collaborator. Only O’Sullivan’s file revealed a sliver of Henri’s face. Tavish studied the reels of microfilm next. As he held them up to the light, he saw Henri appear in the backgrounds of these frames as well.

Tavish stood back in awe. He did not want to believe what these clues told him. If Henri had been working with this terrorist group, what reason did they have to kidnap him? Could Henri be in over his head? Tavish’s gut told him otherwise. Henri had controlled their tryst so masterfully, and conducted his “business” with such mystery, that Tavish had no trouble picturing him as the puppeteer of these men.

It was all a ruse. Tavish knew this, even as his heart protested with great agony. He had been sent to gather these documents, not because the terrorist group needed them, but because Henri had appeared in them. He had no doubt that many other files in the constabulary office would have been equally valuable to the organization, but Tavish now held the only evidence of Henri’s involvement.

Everything Tavish had heard over the phone was staged. It would have been easy enough to fake. More than that, their entire romance had been staged as well, from the coincidence of their first encounter to their blissful days together. Henri wasn’t the pawn—Tavish was.

The phone rang again. Tavish stared at the papers he had scattered, struggling to plan what he would say. Should he reveal that he knew? He remembered how he had first gazed upon Henri and recognized a dangerous predator in the slip of a man. He would not make an enemy of him so blatantly.

“What’s taking you so long, boyo?” asked the Irishman, if that’s what he truly was, when Tavish picked up. “We don’t have time for you to get pissed.”

He provided the perfect excuse. Tavish had been so drunk for so long that faking it was effortless. “I’ll tell ye,” he said, slurring each syllable, “I was jus’ picturin’ how I’m goan tae shoov me bottle up yer arse and pull it out yer mouth, _boyo._ Ye fuckin’ small-time piece of shite, ye doan know wha’ I’m goan tae do when I fin’ ye, goan tae kill ye so hard yer whole family goan tae die at yer fyoonrul…”

“Get to the _park,_ DeGroot. Now, or I’ll put a bullet in your man’s brain myself.”

“I’m goan! I’m goan! Ye bogtrottin’ _fuck!”_ Tavish hung up, pleased with his performance. Henri underestimated him. He thought that Tavish was a stupid, alcoholic child who would follow him like a lost pup in exchange for sexual favors. He had no idea that Tavish was one step ahead of him.

Tavish stuffed the scattered papers back into their respective folders, even replacing the photos he had taken. He had no designs against the Irish now. He would take his revenge against the man who had used and humiliated him.

He layered one outfit over another. Before he left, he tucked the last touches of a disguise into his jacket. A scarf, a cap, and gloves would hide his identity well enough. Once he delivered the files and microfilm, he would double back and watch the drop to see who collected them.

He maintained his drunkard act as he staggered down the street towards the park, evidence in tow. He assumed that Henri had someone watching him. They would see a pathetic boy, muttering to himself like a madman, struggling to hold his composure. He would give them no hint that he was wise to their game.

The evening was so cold that the park was nearly empty. Tavish ignored what few judgmental stares he received. Any one of those people could have been assigned to pick up the documents, but they all passed him by. He would linger long enough that any observer would be forced to walk on or arouse suspicion. That would give him enough time to go through with his plan.

He let himself fall into the bench as if he could no longer stand, and dropped the documents on the ground beside him. For a moment, he sat, staring down at his feet with an unfocused eye.

He had loved Henri. Even now, when he knew that everything was a lie, he couldn’t imagine the enacting the same violence on Henri that he had been so eager to inflict on the anonymous kidnappers. All Tavish wanted was to return to bed with him and forget that anything had happened. Perhaps he was as pathetic as Henri’s estimation. Wasn’t he playing directly into his hands now? There was a chance that Henri would disappear with his stolen evidence, and allow Tavish to blame his captors for his false murder.

Tavish could take the documents, return to the constabulary, and reveal Henri to them. It seemed that they hadn’t recognized him as a crucial factor linking those particular files. A skilled detective might have been able to track Henri. It would be an invaluable tip.

He knew, as soon as he thought of the possibility, that it wasn’t an option at all. His bitterness over his job was the main factor. The old man had told him how he was a worthless asset. They were willing to risk his life to spare their own specialists, and to throw him in jail if he refused. If he revealed that he had a personal connection to a terrorist, he would never be a free man again.

Tavish had no other option. He stood, abandoning the paper bag on the ground, and went back the way he came.

He recognized the area around the park well enough to loop around and disappear between two buildings. He took a winding route, hurrying once he was sure he was out of sight of the main road, and stripped his outermost clothing to reveal the second outfit he wore underneath. Perhaps his boots would give him away—he scuffed them with dirt and gravel, scratching them across on the ground as he wrapped the scarf around his face and pulled the brim of his cap down over his eye patch. The gloves hid the color of his hands. He abandoned his first outfit by a bin, and when he stepped back into the street, he was confident that he appeared as an entirely different man.

No longer burdened by false stumbling and staggering, he hurried back to the park and passed by the bench. He could not have timed it more perfectly. Ahead of him, a man stooped down to retrieve the paper bag. Like Tavish, he was clothed to conceal his identity, with a tan coat that dusted his ankles and a wide-brimmed hat.

Tavish could not afford to stop walking and reveal himself. He lowered his head and passed the man, placing him on the side of his good eye. He planned to double back and follow him.

Something pressed into his spine.

“Not a bad disguise,” Henri whispered in his ear.

Tavish swallowed. He recognized the protrusion as the barrel of a gun. He looked ahead, but they seemed alone on the path. “What gave me away?”

“Your boots.” Tavish cursed. Henri chuckled, and nudged him with the gun. “Walk.”

Tavish dragged his feet along the path, but Henri dug the gun insistently into his spine, forcing him to walk faster. Tavish decided to have some closure before Henri killed him. “How did you know that I had figured you out?”

“I kept track of how much you typically drink. You didn’t have time to buy more liquor, so I surmised that you were out by the time you received the call. You couldn’t have been as drunk as you endeavored to appear. When you took so long to leave, I knew that you had spent your time looking through the files, not drinking as you claimed.”

“I’m shocked that you didn’t think I was too stupid to notice the photos,” Tavish growled.

“Stupid? Never. I wanted you to spend as little time in their possession as possible. I had hoped that you would be too worried for my safety to stop and examine the files. You are very sentimental.”

“I’ll show you _sentimental,_ you treacherous snake.” It was easier to pretend that he was capable of real hatred for Henri with a gun against his back. “You manipulated me. You lied to me. I was _terrified_ for you.”

“I know.” Henri’s voice was softer than Tavish expected, but when he looked back, the brim of his hat obscured Henri’s expression. “Face forward. Keep walking.”

They came to the street corner. Henri directed Tavish into a narrow alley, the same he had used to don his disguise. He had been utterly transparent. They stopped by his discarded pile of clothes, and Tavish dared to turn round, lifting his hands in surrender.

Henri leveled a beautifully engraved revolver at him. There was a silencer on the barrel. Tavish stared, waiting, empty inside. Henri frowned, but did not pull the trigger.

“Go on.” Tavish grabbed the revolver and pressed it against his chest. “You already broke my heart. You may as well put in a bullet in it.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.” Henri tugged the gun free and stepped back, lowering it to the ground. “You were useful to me. I will repay you with your life.”

“And leave a loose end?”

Henri sighed. “Are you so eager to die? I know that you won’t turn me in. You have no evidence, and you are already in danger of arrest yourself. It was hard enough to get you into that office.”

“What does that mean?” Tavish’s mouth fell open. “Were you behind my job all along?” Henri only smiled at him. “I thought—you worked with the Irish, not against them!”

“Do you truly think that I care about the internal politics of these dreary isles? My work is far worldlier. Those men were a small project in a grander scheme.” Henri’s eyes swept over him, as if he could see through Tavish to his very core. “Another part of the equation was the proof of your talent. In several years, you will make a promising demolitions expert, if you can rein in your rampant alcoholism.”

Tavish balled up his fists, but he couldn’t bring himself to strike Henri, no matter how smugly he regarded him from under his hat. “I’ll need to drink _heavier_ just to cope with all this.”

“I would hate to see such potential destroyed.” Henri moved closer, and Tavish flinched away from him. Henri pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “Sweet boy,” he said. Tavish listened in vain for regret in Henri’s voice. Henri stroked his jaw, his neck.

Tavish was unable to stop himself from embracing Henri and kissing him more deeply. Henri allowed it, though his revolver jutted into Tavish’s belly all the while. Tavish thought that, if he communicated his affection well enough, genuinely enough, then perhaps Henri would stay with him.

His effort proved futile. Henri broke their contact and presented the gun as a barrier between them. “I will come for you, _mon beau_.”

“Liar,” Tavish gasped, forcing back tears.

“You will see. Now, stay here, and count to one hundred before you go.” Henri backed away, keeping Tavish at gunpoint, until he could safely turn and vanish around the corner.

Tavish wanted to lie down on the ground and sleep forever. He didn’t bother to count—he leaned against the wall, allowing himself a long stretch of time to wallow in his misery. Henri had contrived an airtight scheme. He wished that he could summon enough fury to chase Henri down in the street and announce his presence to the world, but not only did he know that Henri would kill him if he did, Tavish still couldn’t think of revenge. He just kept remembering their time together, and how complete and happy he had been.

After what would have been several hundred-counts, Tavish trudged into the street. At least there was always whiskey. The bottle would never leave him. He didn’t care what Henri said about controlling his drinking. If he didn’t quiet the maelstrom of his thoughts, he would surely end his life that very night.

Because he stared at the ground as he walked aimlessly through the neighborhood, he didn’t notice the policeman until he came directly upon him. “Tavish DeGroot?” the constable asked.

Tavish glanced at him. His appearance was too distinctive to deny his identity. “What is it?” he grunted.

“You need to come with me. Your employer reported a theft.”

Tavish stood there, too numb even to lie about his innocence, as the policeman cuffed him. Of course this would happen. This was Henri’s masterstroke. Tavish would take the fall for him and rot in prison, unable to track him or take his revenge. With all evidence stolen, he could do nothing to endanger Henri. The policeman marched him towards a vehicle. He was speaking, but Tavish didn’t hear a word he said. There was a ringing in his ears.

The policeman drove him through the streets. Tavish paid little attention to their journey. He knew that they would arrive at the constabulary eventually. He stared at the buildings without seeing them, thinking about how much he hated this city for all it represented now.

Then, they entered a part of Belfast that he did not recognize. Tavish, coming back to awareness, looked around. They were nowhere near their supposed destination. “Where’re we going?” he asked. The policeman said nothing. Panic flickered at the edges of Tavish’s deadened awareness. He asked again, louder, and still the policeman was silent.

Tavish had no weapons on him. His hands were cuffed. In the back of the car, he had no way of opening the door or assaulting the driver. He prepared himself for a beating or worse. He planned to meet the policeman with his feet as soon as he opened the door, but with his luck, they were driving towards a whole group of them.

That did not come to pass. They drove out of the city. Tavish craned his neck to look out of the window and saw the lights of commercial planes flying overhead. They were nearing the airport.

The car stopped by the side of the road, and the policeman exited. He opened Tavish’s door and pulled two slips of paper from his pocket. One was a plane ticket, with an ultimate destination of the United States. The other was a cheque from an American bank. It equaled the amount he had earned in the Belfast job, although he never had a chance to cash his payment. He could see at once that this was meant to replace his lost wages.

“You are a person of interest,” said the policeman. “If you remain here, or return to Scotland, you will be tracked and arrested for your theft of classified material. They will also charge you with terrorist acts, including the detonation of explosive devices at a public site.”

Tavish protested, “They hired me to—”

“This was always the plan,” said the policeman. “They wanted you off the streets as soon as you did their dirty work. The theft will only give them a more legitimate reason to imprison you.” He showed Tavish a key, and Tavish allowed him to unlock the cuffs. “But they won’t follow you overseas. It would be too expensive.”

Tavish studied the policeman’s face. He was unfamiliar, and yet there was something strange about him. “Henri paid you off?” he asked.

The policeman smiled at him with a familiar smugness. “You have a plane to catch,” he answered, and reentered the car. He sped off before Tavish could interrogate him further, abandoning him by the side of the road in the dark.

Tavish had nowhere to go but the airport. He reflected on his suspicion that the policeman was actually Henri in disguise. How was that possible? The man had a much broader build, his face and head were a different shape, and his voice had a completely unique cadence with no trace of a French accent. Tavish gave Henri a greater head start than necessary before he left the alley, but no one could change his appearance so drastically in such a short time.

Then again, it did explain how a policeman just happened to find him within minutes of meeting with Henri. Tavish had been too depressed to question the coincidence at the time. He assumed that they were looking for him in the general vicinity of his tenement, but the timing was extremely convenient.

Tavish considered the ticket again. Could he even trust it? Henri could have been lying to him about his newly criminal status. Sending him to America was likely another step in an unknowable scheme. If he returned home, however, he risked a lifetime in prison with no chance of escape.

Henri had promised him further employment. He had apparently arranged this job, even if it led to a regrettable conclusion. He even made sure that Tavish was compensated. The duplicate cheque was the final factor in Tavish’s decision. If he tried to cash the original, not only would he probably never see the money, but also, the government could track him directly to the bank and arrest him there, if the policeman’s warning was indeed true.

The choice was clear. Tavish boarded his plane. He connected through London, and his layover was long enough to allow him to purchase some cheap liquor with the last of the money in his pockets. He didn’t think about landing in a new country with nothing to pay for food or board until his cheque cleared. He needed relief from the whirlwind of his last few days, and finally, finally, he could sit and drink again.

He spent the entire transatlantic flight in a comfortable haze. Alone with his thoughts, he tried not to allow them to return to Henri, to his handsome face and the sweet smell of his expensive cigarettes, but of course they did. He imagined a different ending to their story. He dreamed that Henri had stayed with him and brought him along on whatever international espionage he was conducting. He pretended that he was Henri’s partner in crime, entrusted with his secrets and his life, and that the two of them brought the world to its knees. Bank heists, government jobs, cloak-and-dagger work, explosive distractions, and clever escapes… Over the long hours of the flight, Tavish concocted quite the narrative. Each episode ended with passionate lovemaking. Henri couldn’t get enough of him in his dreams, and he submitted to Tavish’s growing expertise with encouraging groans and pledges of devotion.

The plane’s rough landing woke Tavish. Sunlight pierced his eye. He was in New York City, he had an erection, and a stewardess was staring boredly at him as if he was the fifth man she had seen in that state today.

He hurried off the plane. As he roamed the airport, lost, he realized that his parents had no idea what happened to him. Once he cashed his cheque and bought some aspirin, he would call them and say that he had another job. That should make them happy enough to alleviate their suspicions.

Tavish did find work fairly soon after that. Somehow, offers always reached him, no matter where he traveled in his new country of residence. He was constantly employed over the next decade, and he became highly sought after as a demolitions expert. His contracts became ever more prestigious and costly. Although he never saw Henri again, he had enough favorable attention from men and women alike to stave off his loneliness. He thought that he would never return home.

Then, his father died. It was very sudden. Like every DeGroot before him, Tavish’s father perished in an explosion of his own making. Tavish had lived in America for ten years at that point. He was sure that the British government had lost interest in him after so much time. Without hesitation, he returned to his mother in Scotland.

They handled their grief the only way they knew how. Tavish had never seen his mother so drunk. She could empty bottle after bottle of scrumpy without so much as slurring her words, but for the first time, Tavish learned what happened when even her venerable experience failed her. Mid-sentence, speaking as lucidly and clearly as could be, she let out a snore, and her chin dropped to her chest.

Tavish prodded her shoulder and called her name. She didn’t respond. He checked to make sure that she was still breathing, and she was, strongly. With great care, he lifted her in his arms. She was so light. She had never before seemed so frail. He brought her to bed and pulled her blanket over her. His father’s pillow lay beside her, still imprinted with the shape of his head.

Tavish wouldn’t leave her side, so he had no choice but to sit on the floor near her bed and blubber like a child. He could have stayed at home and spent his father’s last years with them, but he chose to follow Henri’s vague direction and run off to America. He should have appreciated his family more after he killed his adoptive parents. He probably would have been fine if he stayed with them. There had been a part of him that wanted to chase the promise of an exciting future with a dangerous man, and now he was paying for it.

“What’s that noise?” his mother grumbled, her consciousness returning to a limited degree. “Stop that, Tavish. Boys oughtn’t cry.”

Tavish sniffled and attempted to restrain himself. “Mum, don’t you remember what happened?”

She gave no indication that she did. “Take a walk,” she ordered. “I don’t want to listen to ye.”

“But Mum, you drank so much that you passed out. You could be poisoned. I should watch you.”

“If I die, it won’t be the liquor that takes me,” she scoffed. “Go dry yer eye, me boy.”

He stood, shaky on his feet after matching her drink for drink, and stumbled towards the door.

“Tavish,” she called. He grasped the doorframe and looked back blearily at the little lump in the bed. “Yer father would be proud of ye, working so hard in America. Remember that.”

He couldn’t speak without bursting into tears again. “Uh-huh,” he answered, and hurried out.

He left the house with a fresh bottle and wandered the streets. He had missed being able to do this in America, where they enforced perverse laws against public drinking. No policemen stopped him here, and no one gave him judging looks. The neighborhood was well aware of his father’s recent passing.

Eventually, he had so much that he couldn’t walk. He decided to sit by the pavement for a while, until he regained his awareness. Perhaps it would be a long while. He had walked so far that he didn’t recognize his surroundings, and he couldn’t focus on anything for long with the world spinning as it was.

He continued drinking, because the bottle was there. When it was empty, he leaned over his knees and vomited in the street. Pure liquor came up. He remembered that he had not eaten in days, because he wanted to be as drunk as possible. He was so stupid. He could not have felt worse.

“I see that your drinking problem has not improved.”

Tavish must have been going crazy. He knew he had too much to drink. That could not be Henri’s voice. He squeezed his eye shut.

“ _Mon beau,_ will you not even look at me?”

Hesitantly, Tavish tipped back his head. He followed the long, slim lines of pinstriped slacks, up to the figure he had once known very well. Henri’s hair was gray and thin. He had new, deep lines on his forehead and under his cheekbones. The sight of him lit a fire in Tavish like never before.

Henri extended his hand. Tavish took it, and Henri helped him to his feet. He withdrew a handkerchief and wiped the sick from the corners of Tavish’s mouth, tutting in disapproval. Tavish tried to kiss him. Henri held him at bay with two fingers on his lips. “I missed you very much, but my palate is singularly sensitive.”

Tavish coped with his disappointment by wrapping his arms around Henri. He ended up hanging on him for balance. “What are you doing here?”

“I was just passing through,” Henri lied smoothly. “You will be arrested if you remain here much longer, not in the least because you insist on romancing me in front of your neighbors.”

“I don’t care.” Tavish glared around at the street. “Let them talk.”

“You are much bolder than I remember.” Henri touched his face. “And you have cultivated this unique facial hair. I can’t say that I approve. Perhaps if you trimmed it more closely…”

“Don’t need your approval,” Tavish grunted. “Haven’t seen you in ten years, and you jump right to criticizing me mutton chops?”

“That term is even less appealing,” Henri sighed, “but I didn’t come here to give you a makeover. I have another job offer.”

He presented Tavish with a slim manila folder, stamped with the acronym RED. Tavish, keeping one arm slung about Henri’s shoulders, opened the file. He laughed when he saw the stylized bomb logo at the corner of the paper. Reliable Excavation and Demolition. It sounded perfect for him.

“You will have to return to America,” Henri said as Tavish reviewed the brief, and vague, job description. He skipped ahead to the salary, and nearly lost his grip on the paper.

“They’re going to pay me _how much?”_

“You can plainly see it.” Henri smiled at him. Tavish longed to kiss him so. “My employer has judged you fit for the job, now that there is an opening.”

“And they sent you to tell me in person.” Tavish couldn’t believe that this RED company had been watching him for ten years, but then, he had never gone without employment when he reached America. “It was all leading up to this,” he realized. Even drunk beyond all reason, he couldn’t miss the connection. “That first job in Belfast, framing me for theft, sending me overseas to take assignments…”

“There is an intensive screening process.” Henri gestured behind him. There was a car in the street that Tavish had failed to notice. A gleaming red sports car, no less. “If you will come with me…”

Tavish had already placed his hand on the door when he remembered why he was back home in the first place. “No,” he said, “me mum. I should get back to her. She’s…sick, we just had…my father…”

“Ah, yes,” said Henri, as if he knew all about Tavish’s personal matters. Perhaps he did. “I will send someone to check on her.”

Tavish shook his head. It disoriented him greatly, and he grabbed the car for balance. Henri winced when his sweaty palm printed the finish. “No,” he repeated. “I can’t leave her. I can’t…”

“Don’t worry.” Henri stepped towards him, filling his entire field of vision. His soft lips descended on Tavish’s forehead. Tavish shuddered and leaned into him. He tried to kiss Henri again, forgetting that his mouth was still rancid with vomit. As his lips parted, however, Henri lifted a vial and sprayed a bitter mist that stung the back of his throat. Henri’s deceptively strong arms caught him as his legs gave out. He smiled sadly down at Tavish as the world went black.


	2. Epilogue

Tavish awoke in some kind of medical facility. The walls were painted blue—the same color of the shirt he wore, under a flak jacket. His pounding head told him that he had blacked out after what must have been an intense round of drinking, but this was the first time he had ever regained consciousness in such an elaborate outfit, in such an extraordinary location.

“Herr Demoman,” greeted a German voice. The source was a tall, bespectacled man in a white lab coat. His gloves were brown with dried blood. Tavish had the uneasy feeling that it was his blood. “I finished your report. You are officially fit for duty.”

“Not a moment too soon, neither.” A short man in a hardhat consulted a clipboard. Like the German, and Tavish himself, he was wearing a blue shirt under his overalls. “He was the last one to wake up.”

Tavish, baffled, looked around the room. “Where…”

“Don’t you remember?” the German probed. “We start work today. I just completed the final procedure. Consider yourself markedly improved.”

Tavish’s chest did feel strange. His heartbeat felt sluggish and overpronounced, and his skin tugged tightly across his ribs like he had been split open and sewn shut. “How did I get here?” he asked.

The German adjusted his glasses. “What do you mean? You arrived on the train a week ago, just like the rest of us.”

As soon as he said it, Tavish’s memory returned to him in an overwhelming flood. He remembered accepting BLU’s offer after completing his last job, and relocating to New Mexico from his temporary flat in Los Angeles. He remembered meeting eight other men on the train, all of whom went by their job title. He was Demoman, and they greeted him as such. The German was their Medic, the Texan their Engineer…Sniper, Scout, Heavy, Pyro…Spy. They were mercenaries. They had a week to acclimate themselves on the base in this town, Teufort, before they started fighting their opposition, who worked with a company named RED. The Medic insisted on adding some kind of machine to their heart before they began work, and Tavish was the last in line.

Tavish rubbed his forehead. Something wasn’t right. He felt like he had still had a gap in his memory, even though he could account for every minute since he first laid eyes on BLU’s file. How had they contacted him? He came to America to look for work, and eventually, BLU heard about it and reached out to him. They sent him a letter. He had no trouble recalling any of it.

“Herr Demoman, I must prepare for work,” said Medic, “and so should you.”

“I gotta make some adjustments to the sentries,” Engineer agreed. The clipboard held all of his attention, and he didn’t look up from it as he left the room.

Tavish, or Demoman, as he apparently was known, stood in the center of the laboratory. He started to speak to Medic, but the doctor was busy with some huge contraption attached to a humming fire hose, so he thought better of it and left.

Their job demanded all of his concentration from that point forward. Tavish—Demoman—had never been in combat before, but he learned quickly. The skills he had honed for the last ten years were only a fraction of the work. As he adapted to the challenge over the following months, he forgot that he had ever been uncertain about his position at BLU. Even the occasional glimpse of RED’s Demoman, who bore an unmistakable resemblance to him, didn’t shake his single-minded determination to win their unending war. It was as if he had no other purpose in life but to fight for BLU.

There was only one distraction. The Spy bothered Demo on the rare occasions that he appeared. He wore a mask and avoided all conversation, and yet Demo felt as though he knew exactly how Spy looked underneath it, and exactly how he would sound if they ever exchanged more than the most vital of communication. Even the Spy’s warning shouts and terse reports about the enemy’s sentry placement haunted Demo with their familiarity. Whenever he tried to approach the Spy, he vanished like an apparition. The others told him that this was normal, and so Demo tried to put Spy out of his mind, even though he never stopped wanting to speak to him.

Ultimately, Demo didn’t have to confront Spy. Spy confronted him.

He came back to his small, utilitarian room on a Friday, after a grueling week, and found Spy sitting on his bed, smoking a dark cigarette. He almost dropped his bottle of scrumpy. He had been planning on spending the weekend getting to the bottom of his supply so that he had an excuse to send for more, but as Spy regarded him with a spine-tingling focus, Demo had the feeling that his plans were about to change.

“Henri Rousseau,” said Spy.

Demo’s eyebrows pulled together. “The…painter?”

Spy laughed. “Of all the things to emerge from your subconscious! I had thought you were merely ignorant.”

Demo set down his bottle and approached Spy, who regarded him with startling pale eyes. As always, when he looked at Spy, he had the strange feeling that he had seen him somewhere before. This was the first time in the months since he started with BLU that Spy had willingly remained in his field of vision for more than a minute, and when Demo focused on him, on his elegantly slouched posture, on his hawkish nose and sharp chin and the delicate way he held his elbow in his opposite hand as he smoked, the recognition grew until Demo’s head muddled with memories just out of his cognitive reach. He closed in, sensing that he was approaching the answer with every step, until he stood directly in front of Spy.

“ _Mon beau._ ”

Demo nearly lost consciousness. He did lose his balance, disoriented by both the drink and the shock of regaining ten years of lost memories, and Spy—Henri—caught him, supporting his weight as if it was nothing. Henri maneuvered him to his back on the bed, where Demo lay stricken.

“Answer me,” Henri urged.

Tavish groaned, “You backstabbing snake. What have you done to me?”

“I came for you,” Henri said, “just as I promised.”

Tavish wrenched the collar of Henri’s expensive shirt in his fist. Henri did not flinch. “Why did you bring me into this? Why tell me _now,_ after all this time?” His voice broke. “Who are you, really?”

“Obviously, I am not really Henri Rousseau.”

“Don’t mock me.” Tavish raised his fist, but lowered it just as quickly. All of the tenderness he felt for Henri had returned as well. He would never harm him, and Henri’s fearlessness proved that he was well aware. “You could have let me forget. I had a purpose. I don’t know what the hell is going on anymore! Aren’t I—shouldn’t I be with RED? Who is that other Demoman?”

“You ask so many questions, but none of them are the right ones.” Henri took Tavish’s face in his hands. His leather gloves were soft and warm to the touch. “You should be asking if I love you.”

Tavish forgot to breathe. “Do you?”

Henri kissed his mouth, his jaw, his neck. He rolled Tavish’s shirt up to his chest so that he could kiss his torso. Tavish watched with his heart in his throat as Henri reenacted their first encounter. Even the way he bit Tavish’s lower belly was the same. When Henri’s tongue curled around his cock, Tavish was instantly transported a decade into the past, and all of his youthful affection and lust rushed back and culminated in his bucking hips and clenching thighs. Fortunately, he did not orgasm as quickly now.

He had learned some other things over the years, as well. He stopped Henri and pushed him down to the bed, handling him more forcefully than he had ever dared as a boy. Henri cooperated gladly as Tavish stripped him, and he rolled over to present himself to Tavish’s cock, but it was Tavish’s turn to surprise him. He lifted Henri by the hips and licked the cleft of his arse, penetrating him with his tongue, tasting him eagerly. Henri shuddered and cried out so sweetly that Tavish had to interrupt his ministrations with kisses, on Henri’s lower back and thighs, on his buttocks. He hugged him around the waist, struggling not to cry as his feelings overwhelmed him, and busied himself with rimming Henri like it was his new purpose in life.

“Please, fuck me,” Henri begged at last. He sounded strangled, undone. “Fuck me, Tavish. I need to feel you inside of me again.”

Tavish rolled Henri on to his back. He pulled off his mask, gasping when Henri’s face was revealed to him again. Henri wrapped his legs around Tavish’s waist and arched his back as Tavish entered him, grasping the headboard with white knuckles. Tavish made love to him slowly, with deliberately paced thrusts, letting Henri feel the length and breadth of his cock just as fully and intimately as he was feeling the shuddering warmth of Henri’s insides. He dragged his hands over Henri’s torso and clutched him intermittently, muttering promises to him as they writhed together. He had never stopped loving him, not even in his amnesia. He would always love him. Henri was his first, his only. He thought of Henri with every man and woman that had ever shared his bed. He didn’t care if he never knew his real name, if he died tomorrow, if even this was another cruel scheme. When he first saw Henri, Tavish knew that he would be the end of him somehow, and all he could do was take what joy he could find before it was all over.

“I have a request,” Henri said, when they fell beside each other and caught their breath. Tavish closed his eye, preparing for the worst. “You must never ask about RED again. Do not ask me. Do not ask the others. Do not even hint about your curiosity.”

“And will you ever fulfill that curiosity?” Tavish wondered.

Henri produced a cigarette and sparked a lighter. His silence was answer enough.

Tavish changed tactics. The mysteries of their employment were a distant concern, anyway, as long as he had Henri again. “Will you at least tell me your real name? You know mine. It only seems fair.”

“I was beginning to enjoy thinking of myself as Henri, actually.” Henri offered Tavish a drag, which he accepted. “It reminds me of my time with you. It makes me very happy when you call me that.”

A smile spread across Tavish’s face. He passed back the cigarette and nuzzled Henri’s jaw.

“I have another request,” said Henri. Tavish looked at him without pausing in his kisses. “Your…mutton chops.”

“They’re staying.”

“Just trim them. I can do it. Give me five minutes with an electric razor,” Henri insisted. “You are so handsome. Do not do this to yourself.”

His flattery was irresistible. “Fine,” Tavish sighed, “but if you shave them off, we’re through.”

Henri did shave them off. Tavish got to be with him every night from then on, so it was a fair trade. Their love affair kept him focused on the essentials of his existence at BLU. He did his work, he remembered that Henri was “Spy” on duty, and when he clocked out, he shared his bed with the only man that he had ever wanted more than liquor.

It wasn’t a perfect existence. Tavish was still aware of what he had lost. His mother, for example, never contacted him again. He somehow knew that he shouldn’t be in touch with her, and he didn’t dare test the theory, for fear of causing her harm. There was also the matter of the RED Demoman, his double, who regarded him with similar interest on the odd occasion that they ran across one another on the field.

They were identical in almost every aspect, save one: RED Demoman was unshaven.


End file.
